


The Key

by profdanglais



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: "strangers with benefits" is not a popular tag, Angst, Captain Swan January Joy, F/M, Secret Relationship, Smut, Strangers with benefits, but it should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 18:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: They are strangers with benefits. Lovers who don't know each other's names. And then they meet.





	The Key

**Author's Note:**

> For CS January Joy.   
> (Angst is joy.)  
> (This event has been so great already, mostly because of the amazing random and brilliant conversations on the CSJJ Discord. That's the real joy.)

He let himself in. With his key.

Because she, Emma Swan, the guarded, the cautious, the woman with walls around her heart so formidable that Fort Knox could benefit from her trade secrets, had given a key to her apartment to a man whose name she didn’t even know.

She told herself it was for the sake of convenience. It allowed her to await him in the bedroom clad in lacy lingerie, tiny scraps of fabric that wouldn’t be able to hold her in if she tried to move in them, scraps designed for no purpose other than to adorn her slender form before being torn from it by desperate fingers. Lingerie such as she was wearing now, reclined on her bed, waiting.

It allowed her to enjoy the look in his eyes when he appeared in the doorway, already unbuttoning his shirt, the hot, hungry look that still sent shivers skittering across her skin even though they had been fucking regularly for more than a year.

It allowed her to watch as he slowly undressed, his eyes fixed on her face while hers roamed his form, holding her breath as the smooth skin liberally adorned with dark hair was revealed, inch by torturous inch until finally his cock sprang forth, already hard and ready for her hands and her mouth and her cunt.

It allowed her to fist her hands into her sheets in anticipation, panting now as he crawled onto the bed, his blue eyes almost black and his breathing as ragged as her own, stroking his fingertips up the inside of her thigh and teasing the edge of the lace between her legs as his mouth trailed kisses up her neck.

This was what she told herself, and what she told him. What she wanted them both to believe.

The truth was that she had given him the key because she trusted him, this man she had picked up in a bar. She didn’t know his name or his job or his favourite colour, but she knew the way he touched her, reverently, as though she were something worth treasuring. She knew the earnest way he focused on her pleasure before taking his own, the way he listened to her sighs and remembered each moan, making every encounter better than the last. He didn’t know her name, but he knew every inch of her body. He knew precisely where and how to touch her to make her writhe and moan and scream, and she knew the same about him.

She knew that he would leave as soon as she asked, without protest, never pushing or trying to coax from her anything more than she was comfortable giving.

She knew also that he would stay, his eyes warm and his smile brightening the darkened bedroom when she twined her legs around his and buried her face in his neck, that he would hold her close and safe in his arms and whisper “Sleep, darling,” in her ear. She knew that the next morning he would ask her no questions but would make coffee while she made pancakes, that they would talk freely together about movies and music and books and travel and their theories on the meaning of life with not a word spoken about themselves, their work, their families, their names.

She knew that she _knew_ him, the essence of him, his body and mind and soul, even without the details of his life. She knew that she loved him. And she knew, from the joy that he took in giving her pleasure, from the look in his eyes when he came deep inside her, from the light in his smile when he woke up in her arms, that he would never leave her. That he would keep coming back, keep treasuring her, holding her close, whispering endearments into her hair when he thought she was asleep.

As long as he never found out about _her_ , about what a mess she was and how hopelessly broken life had left her, then she could keep him forever.

As long as he never learned her name.

❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️

He was moving inside her, his lips on her neck, his cock stroking her deep, again and again over just that spot, the one he could always find. She was moving with him, thighs squeezing him tightly, denting the curve of his ass with her heels, their fingers intertwined above her head. She was moaning in his ear, disjointed syllables and broken words of encouragement as he panted curses into the curve of her shoulder. She felt tingling in the tips of her toes and the base of her spine, the pleasure sizzling across her skin so intense that the buzzing of her phone on the nightstand was barely an echo of it, drowned by the explosion of sensation that burst within her as she came, clenching around his cock and dragging him along with her into ecstasy, his groan of pleasure reverberating through her and intensifying hers.

They lay together, still gasping and entwined, as the sweat dried from their skin and they slowly became conscious of the buzzing phone, and of the fact that it had been buzzing for a solid five minutes.

“Are you going to get that?” he murmured against her collarbone.

“Mmmmm,” she said, and he chuckled, his warm breath ruffling the damp blonde wisps at her nape.

“You’ll have to let go of my hand,” she said.

“Apologies, love.” He released her hands and rolled off her, looping his arm around her waist and pulling her close against his chest as she put the phone to her ear and he fell into a doze. 

“‘lo?” she yawned into the phone.

“Emma? Is it too early, hon? You sound sleepy.”

“No, ’s fine.” Emma blinked, trying to focus, trying not to melt into the warm body behind her. “What’s up, Mary Margaret?”

“I’m just calling to remind you that you’re having dinner with us tonight.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Just to warn you, there’s a friend of David’s coming too.”

“Mary Margaret—”

“Now I know you hate setups, Emma, and I promise this isn’t one. Killian’s not really your type, and David actually thinks he might be seeing someone, just maybe not officially. 'On the down low', as the kids in my class say. I just wanted to ask you to please be nice. It wouldn’t hurt you to make a friend, and honestly Killian could use one too. He’s had a bit of a hard time recently. Just promise me you won’t freeze him out, or, you know, punch him if he smiles at you.”

“Now you’re exaggerating.”

“Only slightly. Remember Walsh.”

Emma sighed. “All right, all right, I’ll be nice. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Aaah, I knew it was too early for you! I’m sorry. Go back to sleep, sweetie, I’ll see you tonight!”

“‘Bye, Mary Margaret.”

She put the phone down on the nightstand and snuggled deeper into the man at her back, jostling him awake. He hummed, his arms tightening around her as he nuzzled her cheek. “Sleep, beautiful,” he murmured, the words slightly slurred.

“Sleep,” she agreed, and they drifted off together.

❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️

Emma arrived at Mary Margaret and David’s bearing a bottle of wine and a sense of resigned determination. _Be nice, be nice, be nice,_ she reminded herself. Even if this was a setup —and she didn’t trust Mary Margaret not to lie to her about it being one— she needed to be nice. Needed not to let herself overreact to simple civility. Needed to remember that not every man in the world was out to use her. Sure, every one she’d ever dated had been, but still they couldn’t _all_ be.

_He_ wasn’t, her nameless lover. She felt a thrill at the thought of him, the memory of his hands on her skin just hours before. _He_ would never hurt her. As long as she never let him know too much of her, he’d never have cause to leave.

Mary Margaret led her into the living room where David was chatting with a man. A tallish one, with dark hair who was standing in a very… familiar… loose-jointed way, one she’d only seen once before, and—

“No,” she gasped, and he turned, the blue eyes she’d last seen twinkling at her as she kissed him goodbye lighting up when he saw her, then as he registered the look on her face they clouded with fear.

“Emma, this is—”

“ _No!_ ” she cried, interrupting Mary Margaret. “No, don’t tell him— no, no, _no_.”

Mary Margaret and David were staring at her in astonishment, Killian —because she now knew his name was Killian— in alarm. He held out his hand to her. “Love—” he began, and she stumbled backwards, shaking her head, trying to deny the awful truth of the situation, of the only good thing in her life being ripped away, just like everything else.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fighting back tears. “I can’t. I’m so sorry.” She turned and ran for the door, ignoring the voices calling after her. 

She was almost away when she heard him, him alone, the frantic note in his beloved voice breaking her heart.

“Wait!” he cried “Wait!”

She hurried as best she could in her heels, but his long legs soon caught her up. He grabbed her arm, stopping her. She didn’t turn around.

“Won’t you even look at me?”

She did, and nearly broke at the brittle mix of hope and fear that she saw in his precious eyes.

“I—” he began, then stopped on a strained half-laugh. “I don’t know what to call you.”

“My name is Emma.”

“Emma.” Her name in his voice clawed at her heart and she wanted to scream and rage, wanted to fall into his arms and have him hold her close just once more. “I’m Killian.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking anxious. “Look, I know that this has sort of blown up all of our boundaries, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It— could even be a good one.”

“It’s the worst possible thing!”

“Why?”

She groped for the words to make him understand. “I can’t— I can’t be in a relationship. I’m too— people don’t—” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I can do sex,” she said. “But I don’t know how to be a girlfriend. I don’t know how to be that close to someone, how to let someone in. I’ll— I’ll just disappoint you, mess things up like I always do, and then you’ll leave.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“You _would_. They all do, once they get to know me. It’s best if we just—” she broke off as her throat closed up, refusing to let her speak the awful words. She swallowed, and forced them out. “It’s best if we just end it now.”

She risked a glance at him, and wished she hadn’t. His face was dead white, his eyes wide and desperate.

“Emma, I’ve known from the beginning that you have… reservations about intimacy. But darling, if you really think you can’t have a relationship, you’re very much mistaken. We have one, right now, you and I, one that is very, _very_ important to me. You know me better than anyone ever has, even without knowing my name. And I know you, everything that I need to know to be sure that I want you in my life, in whatever capacity that you wish. We understand each other, love, we always have. Do you know how rare it is, this connection between us?”

“That makes it worse,” she whispered. “Things with you have always been so perfect, I can’t bear to ruin it.”

“You won’t, you couldn’t—”

“I can’t take that chance. I’m sorry.”

He gripped her arms tightly. “Please,” he begged, his voice cracking on the word. “Please don’t do this, don’t end us. I love you.”

“No.” She shook her head, denying it, though she knew he spoke the truth. “No, you can’t.”

“And yet, I do. What’s more, you love me too.”

“I— I don’t,” she lied, convincing no one. 

“Then why did you give me a key to your apartment?”

“That was just for convenience—”

“It was because you trust me with your heart.” Anger edged his voice now. “Don’t lie to me Emma, and don’t lie to yourself.”

“I’m not—”

"You are! Would you really throw away our chance at happiness, throw away the happiness we _already have_ , because things might not always be perfect?"

"You only think we're happy because you don't know me. If you did, you wouldn't want me anymore."

"I _do_ know you. And there are no conceivable circumstances in which I wouldn't want you. Wanting you has all but consumed me from the moment we met. Look at me, darling." He put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up until their eyes met. “I love you. I want you. We can be together, we can be happy, you just have to trust me with your head the way you already do with your heart. Tell me you don’t want that. If you can look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me, I'll never trouble you again.”

“I— I—” She looked into his gorgeous eyes, seeing everything he felt for her within them. She _did_ want those feelings, wanted him. So much. Too much to take them, too much to risk destroying them. “I can’t.” She tore her eyes away. “I can’t do this. It’s over. Don’t come back.” She wrenched herself from his grasp and fled.

❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️

The envelope arrived through her mail slot two days later. It was brown, sturdy, with a small, heavy object within. She tore it open and upended it over her kitchen counter. A key fell out, bouncing on the counter with a clang that carried an ominous finality, far too loud for its small size.

Her apartment key.

She stared at it, shattering inside. With trembling fingers she reached out to touch it, astonished to find her hand and arm still whole and not crumbling into dust under the weight of her agony.

He’d returned her key.

Of course he had. When had he ever not done as she wished? She had told him not to come back. What use would he have for the key?

Slowly she picked it up, closing her fist around it, so tightly that the sharp edges broke her skin. She squeezed until she felt blood welling up from her palm and then she broke, the walls around her heart swept away by wave after wave of emotions, feelings she had repressed for years but never vanquished. Sobs wracked her body as she sank to the floor, scraping her throat as raw as her soul. She cried for the baby she’d been, abandoned and unloved, for the child shunted from house to house but never to a home, for the heartbroken teen who’d had her baby in jail and then given him up, hating herself for abandoning him as she’d been abandoned but knowing she couldn’t be a mother. She wept for the woman, who would rather break the heart of the man she loved than risk being happy with him.

All her life people had left her. Then she’d pushed away the only one who wanted to stay. The only one who wanted her.

The only one who loved her.

❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️

Emma pounded on the bright red door of her friends’ house, brushing tears from her cheeks as she did. It swung open to reveal David, his face harder and angrier than she’d ever seen it. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at her.

“David, hi, I’m— I’m looking for… can you tell me how to find Killian?”

“Why do you want to know?” he asked. “So you can break his heart again?”

She had no answer to that.

“Killian’s had a rough couple of years,” said David. “He lost his brother and his girlfriend and his job, one after the other. He came here to heal, and for a time he did. He was happy with you, Emma, happier than I’d ever seen him. And now he’s a fucking shell of himself, worse than before. Honestly, I think he’s better off without you.”

He made to shut the door but Emma was quicker, blocking it with her shoulder and foot. “No!” She cried. “David, please, I’m so sorry. I was wrong to do that to him, wrong to end things between us. I want to fix it. Please. Please, help me make it right.”

David watched her wring her hands, saw the tears that dripped unheeded down her blotchy cheeks, and felt torn. He was certainly not unsympathetic to Emma's distress or her difficulties. Mary Margaret had told him about her past, not everything but enough that he could understand what drove her, what made her so afraid to trust. However, he had his own friend’s well-being to consider, and Killian’s despair over the past few days had left David distraught and terrified that his friend might be driven to do something rash and unforgivable. Killian had never been particularly rational when he was deeply wounded. As far as David was concerned, Killian had been through enough and had enough still to work through without having to deal with Emma’s crap as well. There was a new assistant librarian at the university, a pretty, friendly woman called Belle who had hit it off with Killian immediately. He’d be far better off with someone like her. Someone bright and cheerful who shared his interests and could maybe make him smile again. Someone who might actually be able to give him her heart.

“I’m sorry, Emma, but I can’t let you hurt him any more,” David said, gently but firmly pushing her away from the door and shutting it with a click.

Emma leaned her forehead against the icy cold wood and sobbed. “But I love him,” she choked out, then nearly fell on her face when the door opened again.

“Do you mean that?” asked David sharply.

She looked up, and hope sparked in her chest at his expression. “Yes, I mean it!” she cried.

“You _truly_ love him?”

She nodded, _willing_ him to believe her. “So much. More than anything.”

“And are you prepared to have an _actual_ relationship with him, one where you use each other’s names and do more together than just fuck?”

Emma winced, but she supposed she deserved that. “I’m ready to try,” she said honestly. “It scares me to death and I’ll probably fuck everything up, but I love him enough to try.”

David’s eyes softened with the kindness and understanding she was accustomed to seeing in them, and she let out the breath she’d been holding in a relieved whoosh.

“I don’t think you’ll fuck _everything_ up,” he said. “One or two things, sure, but that’s inevitable in relationships. He’ll fuck some things up as well, but you’ll work through them together.” He stepped back, opening the door wide. “Come in and warm up a bit, and I’ll write down his address for you.”

❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️

Outside Killian’s office door Emma paused, breathing deeply and gathering her courage. This would have been difficult enough without her having to come to the damn university library to do it, but she didn’t want to leave things as they were any longer than necessary and David had said Killian would likely be working late.

_(“He works at the university library?”_

_“Yep.” David smirked. “He’s the curator of the rare books department.”)_

Emma was still struggling to process that the flirty, sexy, bone-meltingly gorgeous man who made the worst puns she’d ever heard and fucked her better than anyone else ever could was a _librarian_. Yet his name was on the door and the door was slightly ajar, enough for her to see him through the gap seated behind a large wooden desk. His hair was mussed, not in its habitually deliberate, sexy way, but in the manner of hair that had been gripped tightly in despairing fists and tossed for hours on a sleepless pillow. His eyes were shadowed, his face pale. He looked heartbroken.

He looked broken.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Killian,” she croaked, her voice breaking along with him, along with her own heart.

He looked up, anger and despair and resentment and hope and love all written plainly on his face. “Emma,” he whispered.

She took another, tentative step forward. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were right. About everything. I do love you, and I believe that you love me. But I— I’m not easy to love, Killian. I’m too jagged, too hard, and I push people away… I’ll hurt you…”

He surged to his feet and around his desk, wrapping her tightly in his familiar embrace, sighing into her hair. “I’ll risk it,” he said hoarsely. “I’d risk anything for you.”

She sobbed, clinging to him, and his own tears dampened her cheek. “I love you so much, Emma,” he breathed. “I almost told you a million times, but I knew you wouldn’t welcome it.”

“I knew it anyway,” she said, “though I never let myself really acknowledge it. It’s in everything you do, and say, and how you touch me.”

His smile glowed as bright as sunshine, warming her to the depths of her soul. “I knew if anyone could hear what I wasn’t saying it would be you,” he said. “No one understands me like you do.”

“And no one has ever known me like you do,” she admitted. “Even without knowing my name.”

He chuckled. “Do you want to hear something funny?”

“Sure.” Anything that would keep him smiling like that, she wanted to hear it.

“I always called you Swan in my head,” he said, and she laughed. “From that very first night when you said no names.”

“How on earth did you come up with that?”

“From your pendant, of course," he said, brushing his fingertips across it. "And it just seemed to suit you: graceful and elegant and strong. And with a _very_ sharp beak.”

She laughed again. “I think that’s stretching the metaphor a bit, but okay.”

He brushed the hair back from her face, cupping her chin and stroking her cheek with his thumb. “My beautiful Swan,” he said, kissing her gently. “Love of my life.”

She sighed against his lips, leaning into him to deepen the kiss, feeling her whole body sing as he held her close.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Killian,” she whispered when they broke apart. “I’m sorry it took me so long to accept how I felt about you.”

“It doesn’t matter, darling,” he replied. “We’re together now, truly together, with no secrets and no barriers between us. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Me too,” she admitted, tears springing to her eyes again. “I just never thought I could have it.”

“It’s yours now, my love, along with anything else you want that is in my power to give you.”

She kissed him again, deep and hard, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close. He growled deep in his throat, her _favourite_ sound, and gripped her hips tightly, pulling them into his. He was just sliding his hands under her shirt when she pulled back, panting.

“I almost forgot,” she said. “I have something to give you.”

“You do?” He looked surprised, and  _delighted._

“Yeah.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small metal object.

He raised an eyebrow. “The key to your heart?”

“You know perfectly well it’s my apartment key, Killian.”

“That’s what I said, love.”

❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️ ~ ❄️


End file.
